Spattering raindrops whizzed in her face, ominous forerunners from the
inky sky. The wind was whistling with shrill glee in the tree-tops and
the tree-tops tried to flee before it. A mile and a half lay between
her and the big cottage on the hillside--the most arduous part of the
journey by far. She walked and ran as though pursued, scudding over
the road with a swiftness that would have amazed another, but which
seemed the essence of slowness to her. Thoughts of robbers, tramps,
wild beasts, assailed her with intermittent terrors, but all served
to diminish the feeling of shyness that had been interfering with her
determination.
Past Renwood's cottage she sped, shuddering as she recognized the
stone steps and path that ran up the hillside to the haunted house.
Ghosts, witches, hobgoblins fell into the procession of pursuers,
cheered on by the shrieking wind that grew more noisome as her feet
carried her higher up the mountain. Now she was on new ground. She had
never before explored so far as this. The hill was steep and the road
had black abysses out beyond its edges....
She was breathless, half dead from fatigue and terror when at last her
feet stumbled up the broad steps leading to his porch. Trembling, she
sank into the rustic bench that stood against the wall. The lantern
clattered to her feet, and the bag with her jewels, her letter of
credit, and her curling irons slid to the floor behind the bench. Here
was his home! What cared she for the storm?
Even as she lay there gasping for breath, her eyes on the shadowy moon
that was breaking its way through the clouds, three men raced from the
stables at Bazelhurst Villa bent on finding the mad young person who
had fled the place.
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